See how nothing
keeps out of Pluto's gorge,
silently drifts
towards it, waits, sinks
into the thickening dark,
the unreflecting water,
a grave made of mud and stones:
this way-to hide lizard shadows,
that way-to rob of flesh.
Although mercy is an unprofitable profession,
save me from too much death.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem